


fun, fun, fun

by apenora (OceanPenguin)



Series: 'Til the End of June [2]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Letter, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 16:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanPenguin/pseuds/apenora
Summary: She finishes the letter up with a swipe of ink, and then seals it in an envelope. It joins another pile of similar letters sealed away in a box under her desk. She doesn't want to cry anymore.





	fun, fun, fun

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a writing exercise. Concrit welcome.

Chloé,

Are you mean to me because you can? Because you can't ever be nasty to anyone else, so you take it out on me?

Is it fun to watch me squirm? To take sick pleasure in seeing the red wounds beneath your claws, the whimper under your smile? To spread rumors about things you don't know about me just to see me suffer? To make my life harder just because you can?

I think you do. I think it is human nature to dominate, to take what isn't yours because you want it. I think you do it just to reassure your fluttering, failing ego that you aren't as bad as you think you are. I think you do it because in any measuring contest against the world, you abilities are lesser than everyone else's so you're compensating, stuffing some foam underneath your clothes to appear larger.

I think that if I ever confronted you about it, you would deny it. Tell me that you had no idea I ever felt that way. Tell me that you were too good of a person to take that sick desire in seeing blood dripping out of wounds. You'd get your friends to back you up and declare me as a false liar. You'd do it just to see me cry.

I think that even if I confronted you, you'd know it, in your heart of hearts. You'd know that what I was talking about is true, and that you'd be one of the last ones to ever acknowledge it. You'd justify it to yourself, you'd tell yourself that it was fine, because if someone was weak, then that was their prerogative, wasn't it? Isn't it their fault for being pathetic and disgusting and unable to stand up for themselves? Their fault that they never learned how to stand up for themselves, because every time they tried, you were there, blocking them, again and again and again? And turned their friends against them the minute they began to get off the ground?

I think you are the worst bully: the one who hides behind a façade and lunges out around corners. I pity you, because if this is the only way to make you feel like you aren't such a loser, then a such a loser you must be indeed.

Does that hurt? Does it hurt to acknowledge what you think you are, to have that dragged into the open, to have that dark, dark secret you've sworn to uphold taken from your grasp? Do you gasp at my gall to pry open your dead black heart to pull out what you've never wanted to see again?

Or are you too hurt to ever be dead? Are you dead already? God knows that only a dead husk remains inside that pristine little body, and I know that you know that we both know that you're dead inside.

Stop taking me down. How does it feel to be taken down yourself? It doesn't feel good, does it? It doesn't feel inspiring or confident to be put down. Maybe here is when you'll tell me to stop, tell me to stop being such a bitch. What do I know, you will say with a smirk over your shoulder. What do I know that makes me think I'm so powerful? You'll tell me that I'm stupid and dumb.

Dumb. The word makes me laugh. Dumb. Are you saying that I'm stupid? I'm done with you and what you throw at me. I'm tired of being pushed on the sidelines, of taking your problems and going with your ideas. No one can have everything, you realize. No one can have everything, not even you. And if you don't let me have something, I'll take it from you. Just watch me.

Oh, but I can't? Don't you know what I do in my free time? I gather up kids and I teach them to  _think of others, to contribute to their community,_ for God's sake. I teach them to empathize so that when they see someone like me, someone who's been beaten down, they won't be the first in line to step on that person's face. No. They'll be the first person to extend a hand and pick them up off the ground. That's what they're going to do. So even if I won't be helped, at least someone else will.

And what about you? You're nothing, aren't you? Just a bag of words and a cauldron of acid eating away at your insides. No one's going to help you, you realize, especially if you keep stepping all over them the way you do. No one's going to keep staying there underneath your thumb, content to follow your directions and content to take your words.

I know I'm not. And I think that you aren't going to change. And that's fine. I'm going to change, so I'm going to shake the dirt out of my clothes and my teeth and get started on creating my own path. You're not always going to be an obstacle in my path, but you're not going away in the near future either. I think I can learn how to deal with you. I think I already know.

Marinette

She finishes the letter up with a swipe of ink, and then seals it in an envelope. It joins another pile of similar letters sealed away in a box under her desk. She doesn't want to cry anymore.

 


End file.
